


gone pearling

by virumsanguinum



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 17:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18474022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virumsanguinum/pseuds/virumsanguinum
Summary: The Warrior of Light takes his breaks where he can get them, using them as opportunities to be more of an average person (and to spend time with those closest to him), but often forgets that the various abilities granted to him by various supernatural forces are not particularly average.Still, it's the thought that counts.[One-shot derived from a tweetfic! There are some mild SB spoilers, but nothing related to plot details. T rating is just to be safe; there are mentions of a sexual relationship but only mentions.]





	gone pearling

**Author's Note:**

> There's no particular time set for this, just basically any time after WoL gains the ability to breathe underwater.

It's a warm day in La Noscea, but the heat of the sun is cut by a cool, briny breeze rolling in gentle gusts over the stones and timbers of Limsa Lominsa, making it pleasant and comfortable.

Nevertheless, Aymeric finds himself a little warm, unaccustomed to more temperate climates as he is. Not that his usual knightly trappings are at all breathable, something Rhaqa'a likes to remind him when he notices Aymeric's little tells of discomfort as he slowly and gradually begins to roast during meetings with Alliance leaders, even in the relatively cool shade afforded by Gridania's boughs.  _You should bring a change of clothes_ , Rhaqa'a always quips, and Aymeric always replies, quietly, that it doesn't matter, because regardless of what he wears it tends to end up on the floor at the end of the night; a sentiment that makes Rhaqa'a's ears twitch in both satisfaction and amusement no matter how many times he hears it.

Limsa is scenic in a familiar way, though, with its rising towers of stone, and Aymeric was happy to make the journey to meet Rhaqa'a here. The Warrior of Light has spent much time in the Far East of late, and his visits back to Eorzea have been few and far between, which, coupled with Aymeric's own responsibilities, leaves them little time for each other. They take their reunions where they can get them, catching each other up on their respective activities since last they saw each other, reconnecting in ways both large and small. Limsa offers not just a sprawling view of the sea on one side and the coastline on the other, but also some of Rhaqa’a’s favorite food, and it makes for an optimal meeting place, having everything they need for what are essentially romantic getaways.

They’ve already gotten through a rather elaborate midday meal, during which Rhaqa’a regaled Aymeric with descriptions of Kugane’s overwhelmingly vermillion cityscape and its equally colorful citizenry, of the green lushness of Yanxia, the open skies of the Azim Steppe… it’s all a bit beyond him, but there’s not much more he could want for than listening to Rhaqa’a tell him these stories right now. Full of fresh seafood and perfectly complementary wine, they’ve since moved onto strolling the higher decks of the city, where there are fewer people, and Aymeric listens raptly to all that his lover has to say, until he seems to have run out of stories for the moment and they pause to gaze together at the horizon.

“I suppose I’ve talked your ear off as usual, then,” Rhaqa’a says, tilting his head to look obliquely at Aymeric, grinning in a way that’s not exactly sheepish, but indicates that he _is_ aware of how he’s dominated the conversation so far today.

“I assure you that both my ears have remained where they belong,” Aymeric returns, with a gentle smile of his own. “You know full well that I am glad as ever to listen to all the tales of your adventures.”

“I’m not like to stop accumulating them anytime soon, so I expect you to tell me when you’re tired of my rambling, you know.”

“If such a time ever comes – and I do not suspect that it will – you have my word,” Aymeric says, placing a hand over his heart to give a practiced bow, and Rhaqa’a laughs, the sound a little rough around the edges.

“I see, I see. Ah—” he suddenly interrupts whatever he’d been about to say, ears and tail both perking slightly as he straightens his posture. “I nearly forgot! There’s something I’ve really got to show you.”

Aymeric’s playful smile gives way to an expression of earnest interest, and he nods. “By all means.”

“Excellent,” Rhaqa’a says, and glances over the railing barring the side of the walkway they’re currently standing on.

Aymeric can’t possibly compete with Miqo’te reflexes, let alone those of one blessed with preternatural abilities as Rhaqa’a is, and by the time he realizes what’s going on, he’s watching the vaunted Warrior of Light diving, with unexpected grace, off of the walkway.

“By the Fury--!”

The drop feels impossibly long. In his surprise and confusion he can’t estimate the distance from here to the surface of the water at a look, but it feels like a lifetime until there’s a distant splash and Aymeric nearly falls over the edge himself trying to locate Rhaqa’a either above the surface or catch a glimpse of him below it. He grips the railing tightly, feeling his heart now firmly lodged in his throat, scanning the water, waiting. The man has fought _several_ primals and walked away no worse for wear (physically speaking), so the idea of him jumping into the sea, albeit from a ludicrously large height, seems like it should be a small feat by comparison—and yet, Aymeric is anxious, fearing as ever for his safety. Despite everything, it feels that it would be foolish not to worry.

That worry only mounts – and mount rapidly it does - when Rhaqa’a does not resurface. A minute passes, then three, then five. In a fit of uselessness, Aymeric tries holding his own breath for as long as he can, as if that will give him some kind of indicator for how long Rhaqa’a could possibly do so. He can only assume there is a plan here, but no logic he knows of points to a successful plan involving staying submerged in the ocean… indefinitely? After ten minutes, he’s starting to panic. He imagines Rhaqa’a’s body floating limply to the surface or washing up on the shore or somehow getting lost on the sea floor and the warmth of the sun suddenly doesn’t matter because he’s broken into a cold sweat. He could have sworn he was normally more composed than this. He’s had to keep a cool head in life or death situations before, but right now, in this situation that was supposed to be part of a stolen moment of normalcy, he can’t quite seem to get a grip.

Trying to get a grip includes trying to reconcile with the idea of marching himself up to Admiral Bloefhiswyn’s office to explain what’s just occurred. _Admiral, it seems the Warrior of Light has just drowned himself_ , he’ll say. _Pray allow me to borrow a boat, that I may see to recovering him_.

This is not getting a grip.

Getting a grip looks more like this, he supposes: after fifteen minutes, he’s power-walking in the direction of Limsa’s aetheryte plaza. He’s contacted Lucia and several Scions by linkpearl, trying to explain that there’s been an accident. Alphinaud seems perplexed, and Alisaie outright doesn’t believe him.

“I understand your concern,” Alphinaud is saying in his ear, trying to bridge the gap between Aymeric’s obvious panic and Alisaie’s less-than-graceful rebuttal. “But we must needs consider the facts in this situation. As Alisaie has said—”

“Even the Warrior of Light in all his strength cannot hold his breath forever,” Aymeric interrupts.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Alisaie says hotly, sounding like she’s speaking into Alphinaud’s linkpearl rather than her own, and Alphinaud heaves a world-weary sigh.

“Lord Aymeric,” Alphinaud tries again, “we’re saying that you aren’t aware of all details—”

Aymeric stops listening.

He trots quickly down one of the spiraling ramps to the lower decks, coming into view of the city’s aetheryte, paying little to no attention to its usual crowds. It’s been twenty minutes since Rhaqa’a dove into the water, and Aymeric believes he has accepted the reality of the worst case scenario, though he is recalling sentimental things like the feeling of a fond flick of Rhaqa’a’s tail against the back of his legs when they stand side by side and of smaller hands holding his own with surprising strength, golden eyes in the warm light of a sunset, the way even the fur on his ears gets a little mussed after sleeping.

It’s melodramatic in ways he hadn’t thought himself capable of, but he has immediately decided he’ll never love anyone again.  _F_ _acts in this situation_ be damned. What facts does he need when it comes to someone being underwater for longer than any living thing could possibly survive? What will he tell to the other Alliance leaders? Should he put a memorial next to Haurchefant’s, overlooking Ishgard?

“Aymeric,” Rhaqa’a calls from nearby, and Aymeric’s mind, in its current state, chugs very slowly to match this information with what else has happened in the last twenty-two minutes.

He stops short, nearly stumbling with the abruptness of it, eyes flicking around but he feels like he’s not seeing anything, until there’s a fortuitous parting of the people crossing the plaza and there is Rhaqa’a, leaning against the base of the aetheryte, a grin plastered across his face. His clothes are soaked, and his hair is damp (but already only _just_ damp, dried easily by the sea breeze and the sun). He’s holding things in each hand, but Aymeric has suddenly developed tunnel vision and can only comprehend Rhaqa’a’s face, along with the rise and fall of his chest.

The lord commander falls to his knees right there. The smile on Rhaqa’a’s face falters, and he seems to recognize that this prank was not received particularly well. He jogs over to Aymeric and holds out his hands, like a child who realizes he’s done something wrong and is trying to preempt punishment. He doesn’t even need to kneel as well, being so much shorter than Aymeric is.

In one hand is an abalone shell, and in the other is a pearl.

“I grabbed this for you,” Rhaqa’a offers. “From, ah… the bottom of the ocean…?”

Aymeric looks at the abalone. He looks at the pearl. He looks up at Rhaqa’a’s face. He has been hoodwinked. He has been bamboozled. He has been absolutely _punked_.

“By the Fury,” he repeats, trying to look angry. “I was certain—” He fails at looking angry and instead tries to look relieved. “You’re well?”

“Hale and whole, as Alphinaud likes to say,” replies Rhaqa’a.

The slingshot of emotions that has been drawing ever more taut finally releases. Aymeric’s face screws up, and he starts to cry. Rhaqa’a, visibly shocked, tucks the pearl in his pocket and drops the shell, kind of patting at Aymeric’s pauldrons, and then puts his hands at either side of the man’s face, trying to wipe tears away with his thumbs. People are starting to gather around them.

“Lord Aymeric!” A new voice—Lucia, never far away, has caught up with them. And, ever prepared for just about any situation, apparently, she stands between the growing crowd and these troublesome lovers. The Speaker of the House of Lords weeping on his knees in the middle of a foreign aetheryte plaza is not the best look for Ishgard. She places her shield down as well, as an additional barrier, for all the good it does.

“Did I forget to tell you about the part where I was blessed by some Eastern kami so that I could breathe underwater?” Rhaqa’a asks, though of course he knows the answer.

“You— _yes_!?” Aymeric is boggling, or would be if he was not also crying like an inexperienced child.

Rhaqa’a smiles again. “Well! I was blessed by some Eastern kami so that I can breathe underwater. I can stay down there as long as I like, and can breathe as well as if it were air. I thought to find you a souvenir from the sea floor.”

“This… beggars belief,” Aymeric half-murmurs.

“My lord, mayhap you and the Warrior of Light should continue this elsewhere,” Lucia suggests, shouldering away a particularly large Roegadyn rubbernecker.

“…not a bad idea,” Rhaqa’a agrees. “I’d gotten us a room at the inn, anyway.”

Lucia sighs almost imperceptibly; Aymeric’s happy enough staying at all the very… standard accommodations across Eorzea, particularly if Rhaqa’a is with him (she’s privy to this relationship, of course—how could she not be?), but it seems a bit below him. Still, it’s not her place to object, especially if it’s either that or… whatever this is. Aymeric picks himself up quietly, re-assuming a more dignified air. “Lead the way, then, my love,” he says, putting a hand between Rhaqa’a’s shoulder blades.

Some hours later, Rhaqa’a had dried off over the course of fully explaining his new ability, and Aymeric had whispered enough relieved sweet nothings into his ears to feel better about the whole thing, and then was finally able to chastise Rhaqa’a a bit for the nature of his jest. Suitably shamed, the Miqo’te sequestered himself at the room’s desk, pulling a roll of unfamiliar tools out of some unidentifiable hammerspace and beginning to tinker with some small project. Aymeric attempted to look, but Rhaqa’a’s tail fluffed up threateningly, so he sat on the bed with the only literature he could find, a bawdy novella that was embarrassing enough to where he could only properly read one page every fifteen minutes. Finally, Rhaqa’a sits back and stretches out, ears flattening against his head for a moment with the motion. Aymeric immediately puts the book down, glad for an excuse to do so.

“Here,” Rhaqa’a says, lifting a hand, dangling an earring from between his index finger and thumb. “A gift. …I would say it’s an apology, but I started it some time ago.”

Aymeric leans over, narrowing his eyes slightly to focus on the delicate piece of jewelry. It looks more or less identical to the one he normally wears, but above the crystal, Rhaqa’a has carefully mounted a pearl.

A pearl?

He looks down at his hand, which has been holding so tightly to the pearl he was given that it’s practically embedded itself in his palm like a parody of a Garlean third eye.

“That’s why it took so long,” Rhaqa’a explains. “I had to get two.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'VE... NEVER WRITTEN ANY KIND OF FIC BEFORE... so if you want to read this little story in its original format, it can be found here: https://twitter.com/rhaqnroll/status/1117595040522493954


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